Bella Swan, Drag Race Queen
by LadyofSpain
Summary: The yr is 1962, and Jacob Black is a hod-rodder who roars into Bella's life. He leaves school for a weekend and Bella borrows his rod, only to be goaded into a race. Warning: hot rod references and 50's slang. AU, AH.


Bella Swan, Drag Race Queen

**By Lady of Spain**

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns Twilight

**A/N: I don't know about this o/s ladies. I think it might be better suited to the men. There're a lot of hot rod details, so read at your own risk. LOL. I had included a link to a 50's slang dictionary also, 'cuz there is a ton of it in this story, but fanfic wouldn't let me. Later, gator.**

* * *

1962, Thatcher, Arizona 

Jacob's POV:

I opened the door to my screamer, a souped up Ford. There on the seat lay a beige and white feather. The meaning was unmistakable. It was a feather from a chicken.

Eddie Cullen had been harassing me constantly to race him, and I had refused. I wouldn't race unless the dragster was in prime condition, and my sweet rocket needed a major tune-up. I got the tune-up done, but I was cuttin' it close, 'cuz I would be goin' home in a couple of days, and I didn't have time for racing.

One of my roommates, Embry, and I made the trek back home that Friday. Little did I know that while I was in Winslow, drag race history was being made in a big way back in Thatcher …

One Year Earlier:

My dad owned a garage, called Double B Auto Repair in Winslow, but our family lived on the Navajo reservation. I think I actually grew up in that garage, either that or born with a socket wrench in my hand. I loved cars, and tools, the smell of grease, and the sounds of a finely-tuned engine. Maybe someday I would be the owner of a garage like my dad, but for right now, since I graduated from high school, my dream was to build my own dragster and burn rubber from here to the Mexican border.

I earned money working at the garage. I was there before opening every day and stayed 'til closing in my hurry to scrape enough bread together to buy a car I had my eye on. It was a '41 Ford Coupe Deluxe. It wasn't in the greatest condition—okay, so it was fallin' apart, and probably hadn't been driven in twenty years. Ol' man Hansen, said I could have it for forty smackers. I had some mad mechanical skills, so I was pretty confident that I could get it in running condition again. I talked to my dad about it. He was not too keen on it, believe me. He thought I was wasting my time and my forty bucks.

He was puttin' a hubcap back on a tire as he said, "Are you sure you want to do this, Son? It's going to be a lot of work, not to mention that money can be put to better use for college."

Didn't he ever get tired of bashing my ears? Geez, it was the college lecture for the umpteenth time. Rolling my eyes, I answered, "I'm not stupid, Dad. I'll be saving up for school too. There's no future for me here. I know that."

He gave the hubcap a couple of wallops with a rubber mallet to be sure it was secure. He was probably wishing it was my head. "Well, just don't forget it."

No way would he let me do that. He was the king of repetition. I could write a book about Dad's little salty speeches and call it, Billy Black's Words of Wisdom/ or How to Annoy Your Teenager in Twenty Five Words or Less.

* * *

The day finally arrived when I had all forty dollars folded in my jeans pocket. I went to see Mr. Hansen. Well, actually, the hell with Mr. Hansen, I wanted to get a gander at that Ford.

He took me out to his garage, and there under an inch of dust and cobwebs sat my diamond in the rough, with a bumper hangin' off the rear end, a rusted engine, a faded red paint job, and four flat tires. Maybe Dad was right … was he? Nah … I could handle it.

Mr. Hansen was a little long in the tooth, if ya get my drift. He wasn't drivin' at all any more, so all his tools were divvied up among his grown children. I let him know that I'd be back with my tools to remove the two tires from the rear. I ran back to the house and picked up a crowbar, a toolbox and a jack. I crossed my fingers that the tires weren't rusted solid on the axles.

I rang my best buds, Embry and Quil to drive me back to Hansen's place and help me cart the tires to Dad's garage.

They lent their muscles to ease the tires off the back, and loaded them in Quil's Chevy.

In their usual good humor, they began ribbing me about my purchase.

Embry held one of the tires while I pumped the air into it. "I hate to rattle your cage, man, but that's a real beaut, you bought there, Jake. I'll bet the motor is in tip-top condition too."

Quil chimed in, "Yeah, maybe you should borrow a nag to pull it down the street."

I finished airin' up the first tire and waved the hose at them. "Cut the gas, nosebleed, you'll be singing a different tune, when I'm finished with her. She'll have so much horsepower, I'll be leaving my rivals at the starting line, chokin' on a cloud of dust."

The second tire was inflated, so I cast an eyeball at the other one. "Hey, look at that … I think they're actually gonna hold the air. You guys ready to cut out?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm really cranked," Embry chortled. "Let's get to Hansen's, get these tires back on, and remove the other two."

* * *

All the tires got aired, and replaced that day, so it was time to take my baby home. I asked my dad if he would haul it with the wrecker, and he reluctantly agreed, still shakin' his head and clickin' his tongue at me.

As soon as we reached the house, I ate dinner in a hurry, and ran out to the Taj to see what was what. I pulled off the front end and took a good look at the motor. It was bad news. I'd never seen another engine so totally grody. No doubt about it, I'd have to install another engine. Great—looked like the junk yards would be seeing a lot of me.

* * *

Six weeks later, my machine now sported a 351 cubic inch Chrysler Hemi under the hood. I ordered a conversion kit which unfortunately arrived when my dad was home. He didn't say anything when I admitted it was mine, but his eyes said a mouthful.

Finishing all the modifications, I asked my dad to do the safety inspection for me, so I could actually drive it. He refused—stubborn ol' man! Damn, I had to take it to one of our competitors.

With my stormin' machine jacked up, and muffler removed, I owned the fastest set of wheels in town. If she had a pair of wings, I'll bet she could fly. I had her painted black- cherry red, and named her the Black Cherry Bomb seein' as she exploded onto the local drag racing scene so quickly. I was now ready to fire her up and lay a patch.

South of town, there was a stretch of road with stripes painted horizontally. We used to drag there, and we never got caught by the heat, since the races were over in a flash. By the time they got there, we had already split. The parents never had a clue, but my dad wasn't as dumb as some. He was aware of my racing addiction. I think he secretly was proud of my accomplishment, as long as I didn't stack up.

* * *

One day, we were hangin' at the Dairy Queen when that hothead, Paul Lahote challenged me to a race. I wasn't in the mood, so I said no, that and if the cops got me, my car wasn't exactly legal yet.

That crazy nosebleed, Quil, piped up and said. I'll do it. I'll bet you twenty smackers, I can beat you."

I pulled him by the back of his shirt, and spilled in his ear, "Big tickle, Quil, are you nuts? Your car is a junker; the motor's gonna fall out, halfway to the finish line. Plus—you can't afford to lose that twenty."

He tore his arm away from me, and glared. "What's the matter? Jealous, 'cause the mighty Jake backed down? Well, I'm _not_ backing down. I'm doin' it!"

I ran my hand through my hair. "Geez, lay dead already. C'mere, I have a plan."

I talked Paul into letting me drive, and I'm ashamed to admit we switched cars too. Strangely, in the dark, no one seemed to notice. We changed out the license plates, disconnected the headers, and were out to the line pronto. One of the waitresses from the Dairy Queen swung a scarf in the air, as a signal for us to punch it.

I rolled along smoothly 'til the end was in sight, then I goosed it and sprang ahead at the last minute, passing him.

We raced three times, with the best two outta three winning the bet. The second time around, Paul killed the engine in his flip top, so I let that one slide. The third race, I popped the clutch and zoomed off the line so fast, that my tail end sailed up off the ground. Needless to say, I thundered back to the Dairy Queen at 120 miles per hour to pick up the bet before anyone got wiser. As for Quil's racing career, he was more interested in back seat bingo than anything else.

I knew that I was the big shot racer in town, but so what? That meant nothing as far as I was concerned. I wanted to swim with the big boys—the professional racers. I got my chance, and took my hot rod to the airport runway outside of town. That's where they held the real deal. Sadly, I didn't do as well, so it was a good thing I was headed out to Eastern Arizona Junior College the following week. That was where a little brown-eyed girl started _draggin'_ my heart around.

* * *

Quil, Embry and I all shared an apartment and attended college together. I was enrolled in—what else—Automotive Engine Building and Repair, and Advanced Mechanics. It was lucky for me to be in those classes, 'cuz my rocket had a cracked block, so I replaced it with another rebuilt engine. Hot roddin' was definitely still in my blood.

I'd been at school for six months when I noticed a little brunette with running lights the color of melted chocolate walking to class. Man, she kinda razzed my berries. I elbowed Embry, "Hey, who's the girl with the classy chassis?"

"Who?" He swung his head around. "Oh, that's Bella Swan. Crazy, man—I think she's givin' you the eye."

I leaned in closer to him, so I wouldn't miss a word. "You know her?"

"Yeah, she's dating Eddie Cullen from Holbrook, and Jasper Hale from Casa Grande."

Embry grinned knowingly. "Why, you want to meet her?"

"Just wondering."

I hadn't had a lot of experience with girls, since my one true love was a black-cherry red '41 Ford Coupe. I saw the way girls looked at me though, all six feet five inches of me. I overheard one of the girls call me a flutterbum—translation—she thought I was pretty cute. The mirror didn't lie. I guess I was … kinda cute. I wondered if Bella Swan would think so.

That night, Embry ratted me out to Quil; they were up to no good.

The next day, Quil put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I hear you're interested in that Swan chick. Should be no problem, Jessica Stanley told me that Bella has a crush on you."

Now I was really stoked. Bella Swan had a crush on me? I guess my rep as a hot rodder really killed her. Now what was I gonna do about it? I knew tons about the workings of an auto, but not that much about girls. I'd been out with a few; after all, I wasn't a monk. But none of it could be constituted as serious, though.

On our way back to classes, I spotted the girl in question again. This time, I flashed my famous Jacob Black smile in her direction. Her response was the dirtiest look known to mankind. Embry burst out laughing.

My eyebrows musta rose so high, they landed on the back of my head. "What was that? I thought you said she had a crush on me."

Clappin' me on the back, Embry blared, "Sorry, Jake. It was a joke. She can't stand you. I've got it on the highest authority that she thinks you're an overbearing, arrogant, conceited, hot rodding jerk!"

I was speechless. She didn't even know me. "Why would she think I was like that?"

* * *

For several days, I'd seen her here and there. I was playing football out in the field one time, and laughing, as usual—okay, so I was always smilin' and laughing. I couldn't help bein' a sunny person. That's who I was. Anyway, Bella went walking by, and I winked at her and said, "Hi."

She replied, "Hi, yourself, bull." Then she muttered, "D.D.T."

Embry told me later that she complained, "How could anyone be that happy all the time? What is wrong with him? Stupid jock!"

* * *

That Friday, Embry and I were cruisin' Central and noticed there was a car tailing us; Bella was in the driver's seat. Embry motioned for her to pull over. He got out of the car and talked to the giggling mass. When he got inside our vehicle he told me that the girls wanted me to come join them. He drove off as I transferred myself to the backseat of the other car, sitting beside a pretty blonde. She said her name was Angela Weber. She giggled a lot which drove me nuts, but I politely ignored that. Maybe she was just nervous around me. We cruised for about an hour or so, and wound up at the University Drive In—commonly called the UDI—for a couple of Cokes. Bella was quiet the whole time, and seemed to be avoiding me. Geez, what did I do to her?

One week later, I spotted Bella in front of her car by the sorority house. Was I seeing things? She was actually waving me over. I drove up, as close as possible and stabled my horse. I popped open the door, and sat side-saddle on the car seat.

She sashayed up to me, standing in front of the open door. I had all I could do to appear anti-frantic—her doe eyes making a grease stain outta me.

"I wanted to talk to you about Angela. She's a good friend, and I don't want her hurt."

Whaaat? "You don't need to worry about that. I'm harmless."

She fidgeted, shifting her weight, between her feet. "Well, there's something else, too." Bella hesitated, then blurted, "I want to apologize for the way I've been acting toward you. I'm really sorry. I was told that you were some actor, and a dumb bull—that you thought you were really radioactive, and a gift to all the college girls."

My head jerked in surprise. "Who told you that?"

"A guy I've been dating, Eddie Cullen."

I laughed out loud. "Well, no wonder. Cullen hates my guts. I've raced him a couple of times, and each time it was a blow off in my favor. He's been trying to get a rematch ever since."

"I know. Angela told me. I guess he's jealous. Anyway, Ang also told me what a good guy you are, that you don't drink or smoke, and are actually pretty earthbound. You're not the troublemaker I thought you were. When you roared into town with that hopped up rod, I pegged you for a womanizing actor. I'm glad to see you're not that at all."

It was a nice feeeling—not getting' clanked again for a change. Then she asked, "So … are you going to be asking Ang to go out with you?"

"No, I don't think so."

Her head tipped sideways. "Why not?"

I don't know where the courage came from, but I heard myself say, "'Cuz, I'd rather take you out."

Her face colored the most glorious shade of red. It nearly matched the shade of my Ford's paint job. I waited a beat, then coaxed, "Well, will you? I mean, go out with me?"

I held my breath as I waited in anticipation for her answer.

She bit her bottom lip, and quietly said, "Okay."

Yes—she said yes! I grinned at her. "My chariot awaits, you wanna get in?"

She slid onto the passenger seat, and in an instant I was agitating the gravel on our way to the UDI.

* * *

Now that Bella and I were a couple, I found out why Quil's favorite game was back seat bingo. Man, that girl could kiss. She really knew how to razz my berries. We never went any further than necking though; I didn't want to fulfill any of her earlier impressions about me. Plus, I heard her dad was a cop, and as far as I knew, none of my automotive tools were designed to remove bullets.

We'd been dating for about six months when I had to go out of town—to Winslow actually—for my dad's birthday. I was leaving that Friday, and Embry was going with me in his Chevy.

Bella was helping me pack for the trip. "Hey, Jake, since you'll be gone all weekend, do you mind if I borrow your car?"

Geez … I didn't know. Would I trust my baby to take care of my other baby?

She saw the look of concern on my face. Then her arms were around my neck in an instant, making my decision difficult. So reluctantly, I said, "Not a scratch on it. You hear me."

Releasing my neck, she squealed, "I swear on my grandmother's grave. You won't regret this." She kissed my cheek. "You're the best, Jake!"

* * *

My trip was good, but the condition of my rod when I returned was not. I drove it to the UDI to get a hamburger when I heard a distinct click, click, click. I knew that familiar sound. One of the gears was missing some teeth on the transmission. Damn, not again—another transmission blown to hell. This made the twenty sixth transmission that went out. That was probably a record in the Guinness book of automotive history.

Embry got the scoop as to how it had blown. It seems that Bella was enroute to Safford a few miles away with a carload of girls lookin' for fun. I couldn't blame her. Thatcher wasn't exactly a carnival of adventure. But, anyhow, a car pulled up beside her. She recognized the guy from college. He began honking his horn, asking her to race. There was another vehicle behind him, asking for the same chance. She said no, but he kept pulling up to the Ford, pestering her. Let's face it, my machine was just beggin' to go head to head with another hot rod.

Finally, she got tired of it, and floored it, goin' 100 mph. The race was on, but it was no contest. As she passed the two stunned drivers, she apparently shouted, "Eat my dust, boys!"

* * *

That afternoon, the beaten suckers came to me rehashing the same story of how my girl had skunked them. They were demanding that I race them, after they had tuned up their rods.

I put them off, "Maybe next time." They cut out, disappointed.

The very next day, when I opened the door to my car, I found another feather, but this time, it was pink! Oh, no, I was not gonna allow my girl to become, Bella Swan, Drag Race Queen. For now, she would remain, Bella Swan, the girl who could make my heart race—and that was the only race that mattered, at least to me.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
